Deliver your words not by number but by weight

Even though my periodic conceit is that of a feuilleteur, I find I am still drawn to occasional texting. Sometimes there is simply no need for verbosity -the information that I am late but enroute, does not require an essay to explain. And yet, even the word ‘sorry’ prefixing the text, may fail to express the feelings of regret or embarrassment. Without waxing prolix, how then to express the emotion succinctly?

The usual answer, and the one to which I have usually resorted, is an Emoji (from the Japanese, meaning something like ‘picture word’). Although I confess that I am never totally sure of their meanings, I have tried to err on the side of simplicity. A smiling face, for example, means just that, and the one of clapping hands means congratulations -obvious and unambiguous messages… Or so I thought.

I suppose that most of us get caught up in our own values, though -it’s hard not to view the world through a cultural lens. We sometimes forget that each society sees the world a little differently. Like it or not, we live in a time of different Weltanschauungen -or at least have become more aware of it in this epoch of population displacement.

I did not fully appreciate the effects of the disparity until I came across an article in a BBC Future article on Emoji: http://www.bbc.com/future/story/20181211-why-emoji-mean-different-things-in-different-cultures

It seems that what I had assumed would be universal in its meaning -or at least the emotion would be interpretable in much the same way by everybody- was mistaken. Perhaps I would even have agreed with ‘linguistics professors such as Vyvyan Evans, author of The Emoji Code: The Linguistics behind Smiley Faces and Scaredy Cats, would soon declare to be “incontrovertibly the world’s first truly universal form of communication”, and even “the new universal language”.’ But, as Keith Broni, a business psychology expert explains, ‘emojis do not and cannot by themselves constitute a meaningful code of communication between two parties. Rather, they are used as a way of enhancing texts and social media messages like a kind of additional punctuation.’ Their intent seems to be to substitute for body language, and facial expressions, that might otherwise be difficult to convey in a short text message. So, ‘without the accompaniment of a smile or sympathetic tone of voice, a one-liner message runs the risk of being misinterpreted as negative, bossy or even rude.’

The problem, however, is in the interpretation, and although there is a range of Emoji on a smartphone, mine has no authoritative Oxford Dictionary, or whatever, underneath to mold each one into a universally agreed-upon meaning. So unintended interpretations are possible, depending upon the audience.

For example, ‘While the thumbs-up symbol may be a sign of approval in Western culture, traditionally in Greece and the Middle East it has been interpreted as vulgar and even offensive. Equally, in China, the angel emoji, which in the West can denote innocence or having performed a good deed, is used a sign for death, and may be perceived as threatening. Similarly, the applause emojis are used in the West to show praise or offer congratulations. In China, however, this is a symbol for making love.’

And then there is the smiling face, something I would never have dreamed might not be universally welcomed. Well, in China again, ‘the slightly smiling emoji is not really used as a sign of happiness at all. As it is by far the least enthusiastic of the range of positive emojis available, the use of this emoji instead implies distrust, disbelief, or even that someone is humouring you.’

We all see our worlds through the lens of our traditions -an amazing kaleidoscope of colours and textures paint each facet of our lives. And yet, woven into the fabric is a confusing chiaroscuro of meaning that may obscure the intended pattern.

I have a friend who is equally aged, but perhaps less enthused than me with the digital world. She has a smart phone though -but just for emergencies, she continues to assure me whenever I catch glimpses of it snuggled obtrusively in a pocket.

We meet occasionally for coffee, and since I normally take public transit, there are often unavoidable, and usually unpredictable delays. “Wouldn’t it make sense if I could send a quick signal to alert you that I am going to be late?” I usually tell her when I arrive.

Her eyebrows inevitably head skyward at my not so subtle wish to text. “You can phone me,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s why I carry it -for emergencies,” she adds, making sure I notice the italics.

“That’s difficult on a bus,” I reply. Then, I usually point out how annoying it is to hear others speaking loudly into their phones so they can be heard above the ambient noise.

And that’s where the disagreement sat until one day, the bus was inordinately late and I found her fuming at the restaurant. We sat in silence for a few moments after my abject apology, and then she aimed her wrinkles at me and smiled -but not in forgiveness, more in capitulation. “Okay,” she said through taut lips, “You can text me if you’re going to be late next time.” I could tell she saw it as a major concession, so I merely smiled, and sighed quietly to myself.

And sure enough, the very next week, I found myself standing on a crowded bus caught in traffic -a perfect opportunity for my virgin text. Unfortunately I was being jostled about in the aisle as we stopped and started unexpectedly, so I had to improvise a short, but clever message to let her know I was on my way. ‘Bus caught in traffic. I’ll be there in 15-20’ sounded pithy, yet polite. My time estimates were completely made up, though -I really had no idea when I’d arrive. I pushed ‘send’, and waited for a reply that she’d got the message.

It never arrived, of course, and as time passed and my estimates seemed bound to fail, I thought I’d better send her a follow-up apology. It’s hard to concentrate while standing in a crowded aisle with people bouncing off you, so I improvised and just sent her an Emoji – I used the upside-down face to suggest that things were not as I had hoped and that I was still uncertain when I’d arrive. I have no idea whether that’s what the little face meant, but it made sense at the time.

Suddenly my phone rang, and as soon as I answered it, I could hear her usually soft voice speaking loudly and indignantly in my ear. “What do you mean you’re not coming?” she shouted. “I’ve been waiting here for over half an hour!”

I tried to speak softly, but the noise around me made that difficult, although I found myself trying not to match her volume. “What are you talking about, Judy?” I said, my mouth as close to the phone as I could.

“The face,” she yelled into her phone, and I could see the smiles on the passengers standing next to me.

“What…?”

“That upside-down thing that obviously means you’ve changed your mind!”

I hurriedly apologized, then glanced out of the window and assured her that I wouldn’t be much longer. I’m not sure she caught the last words, though, because her phone went silent before I finished.

I was just putting my phone in my pocket when a young woman standing next to me turned her head and blinked. “I use the upside-down face sometimes -it has a lot of meanings- but you have to be careful who you use it on. The Emojipedia says it can mean you’re being sarcastic, or maybe don’t really mean what you said…” She smiled a helpful smile then turned back to her partner.

I didn’t even know there was an Emojipedia…

 

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Digiphilia

My computer seems to be constantly doing things behind my back, or under my fingers. One minute it’s performing some sort of update, the next, applying a patch or pretending to, at any rate. I have to trust that whoever makes the little signs that pop up is honest and doing things in my best interests. But how would I know -until it’s too late? There’s a lot of hope that goes into owning a computer nowadays -but sometimes it seems more like a Mafial protection racket and I do what it says so I don’t get hurt. So my data doesn’t leak out onto Facebook. Doesn’t de-encrypt on its way to the Cloud.  Of course, that’s what I pay it to do, but nonetheless it always seems busy. Like me.

Sometimes I wonder what that means, though -being busy. Is it like my computer -being occupied with a thousand thankless tasks whose relevance is probable, but unprovable and invisible? Or is busy actually more like what it does for me when I ask it to print something, or search for a particular file and display it? Something I can use, in other words.

The questions are not as odd as they seem. A patient of mine seemed to be confronted with a similarly existential angst one day as she was fiddling with an app on her smartphone trying to find the date of her last period. I’d seen Jenny a few times in the past for heavy and irregular periods, but they’d sort themselves out and I wouldn’t hear from her until the next time her family doctor became concerned. A young-looking woman in her mid-forties, she always seemed busy with something in her purse or in the depths of one of the voluminous pockets of the coat she always chose to wear. Then, like a magician extracting a rabbit from one or the other, she’d hold up a scrap of paper like it was a Dead Sea Scroll and wave it at me in triumph. “I knew I’d written it down,” she would explain, her face red with the effort. “It’s the best way.”

It was different this time, however. I hadn’t seen her for a while and her hair was longer, greyer, and piled on top of her head like she’d done it in a hurry in the dark. Her face had changed as well -more lined. More flustered. She was wearing a dark blue woolen sweater with no pockets, and her purse wouldn’t have held much more than a phone. But as agitated as she looked, she greeted me with a warm smile of recognition.

My first question, after the usual reminiscing banter seemed the obvious one. “Your doctor says that your periods are heavy and irregular again,” I began, glancing at his letter on the screen of my laptop. “When did the last one start?” This initiated a confident dip into the little purse and a rather smug look on her face. She pulled out a standard issue smart phone and started to punch in the password to unlock the screen. I could tell from her expression that it hadn’t worked. “I decided on a simple one, so I’d remember the password,” she explained with a blush. “But I think I entered it backwards…” She smiled to herself and re-entered it with much the same result. “Damn! Maybe I’m using the one for my debit card -the PIN thing…” she added for clarification. “Or could it be the..?” She punched in a few more numbers, this time angrily, then sighed noisily. She blushed again, but her cheeks were already flushed with irritation. “New phone,” she added, but more to herself than me. “Actually, my first smart phone…”

She put it on the desk for a moment while she decided what to do.

“Just tell me the approximate date your last period started,” I said to calm her down a little. “It doesn’t have to be exact…”

But I could see an idea flash across her eyes. “I wrote it down just in case,” she said and stood up to reach into a pocket in her jeans. My fingers hovered over the keyboard in anticipation. “Here it is,” she said, pulling out a crumpled piece of brightly coloured paper the size of a small post-it reminder like I used to stick on my charts to alert my secretary to do some task or other. Jenny had her backup systems.

But it wasn’t the date of her period, it was the password for the phone.  I rolled my eyes when she wasn’t looking, and smiled patiently: my backup system…

Soon she was deep in the inner mysteries of her phone hunting for an app, scrolling randomly it seemed to my watchful gaze. I glanced at my watch -eighteen minutes so far of no progress in solving the problem she had waited so long to see me for.

“I used to just remember things like this,” she said with an embarrassed shrug. “Then, when my periods became irregular, I would write the dates down…”

I couldn’t see her face as she said this -her long, greying hair had come unravelled from its original wrappings and was hanging over her nose and eyes as she stared at the tiny screen, head bowed as if in prayer, frantically scrolling through some app or other with her fingernail.

“My girlfriend convinced me to get one of these,” she said, perhaps pointing at the phone that was hidden in her lap behind the desk. She looked up briefly and smiled at me. “You remember Lara?”

It was a statement really, not a question despite the obvious verbal question mark. I decided I did not have to respond and just smiled in return. I had no idea who Lara was.

“You delivered her little girl a few years ago,” she continued almost as an aside, trying to multitask as she whacked at the screen. “Anyway she said she’d given up pencils for good and was happy about it. No more scraps of paper in her pocket, or sounding the depths of her purse for a reminder she’d forgotten she’d put in there.” She surfaced again for air, and then just as unexpectedly disappeared behind her hair. “No more worrying about where things are; everything’s in the same place…” Her hair quivered for a moment, then the moment passed and the scratching sound resumed. “You can even set an alarm on some of the apps… Not this one, though,” she added, as if to excuse her absence.

“Anyway, Lara says to say hello.” And then a whispered curse, as if her friend had joined her behind the wall of hair.

“Any word about your period?” I  asked, pretending it was a joke.

Jenny giggled nervously and waggled her hair again. “I should have written that down somewhere for you… Well, I mean I did, but I can’t find it.” Two eyes peeked timidly through the hair like children hiding in a bush. Then suddenly, her head bobbed up and the hair parted as a curtain might with a gust of wind. “Wait a minute,” she said, excitedly, “I did write it down!”  She jumped to her feet and managed to cram some fingers in another pocket in her jeans. “Hah!” she shouted excitedly. “Here it is! You always have to have a backup plan, don’t you?” She pulled out another post-it note and placed it triumphantly on my desk.

I smoothed it out and tried to read the now-smudged writing on it as she watched my every move with ill-disguised pride. When I seemed to be having difficulty she gently retrieved the tiny document from my grasp and translated it. But slowly, like a teacher trying to help an unexpectedly slow pupil. “It says nine days ago, doctor. It started nine days ago -well, probably nine and a half, because they often seem to start the night before…”

I have to say she was very patient with me. More patient than I felt. “Nine days ago Jenny?”

“Nine and a half,” she corrected me.

“But couldn’t you just have told me that in the first place? I thought maybe it might have been a few weeks ago, or perhaps a very long time ago…”

She shrugged noncommittally. “That’s why I wrote it down,” she said as if I was still being a bit slow. “I didn’t want to give you the wrong information, after all…”

“But…”

She looked at me, obviously annoyed that I was not being more understanding. “I lead a busy life, doctor. I can’t be expected to remember everything.” She softened her expression like a mother, concerned she might have been a bit hard on her child. “So I write everything down where I can find it when I need it.”

I stared at her phone for a moment and shook my head with a knowing smile. I don’t think she saw that, though, because she was obviously  pleased with her methods and was carefully folding up the password on that first piece of paper and getting ready to put it back in her pocket again. “When you’re busy, you have to have a plan,” she said proudly. “And a backup…” she added wisely, in case I hadn’t seen the wisdom in it all.

The Gyne Phone

The iconoclasts were people who destroyed religious icons for various reasons. It’s a practice that began thousands of years ago. And somebody’s messing with the icons again -but this time, it’s the  iconoplasts

The icon has ancient roots and the word derives from the Greek word eikon meaning ‘likeness’ or ‘image’. Originally, it was usually a religious depiction of a god, or saint, but destruction of icons (iconoclasm –clasm deriving from the Greek word Klan, meaning to break) gradually morphed into destructive acts against the status quo. However, given the ubiquity of the computer, icons today usually refer to representative symbols on the screen of different options or programs.

Before written traditions gained a foothold, the dissemination of information or tribal history depended on oral transmission –i.e. on memory. But this presented some problems in terms of the sheer volume and accuracy of what needed to be passed along. Addressing this issue, Wikipedia (sorry!) notes: “Without the use of writing systems to transmit information through time, oral cultures employ various strategies that serve similar purposes to writing. For example, heavily rhythmic speech filled with mnemonic devices enhances memory and recall. A few useful mnemonic devices include alliteration, repetition, assonance, and proverbial sayings. These strategies help facilitate transmission of information from individual to individual without a written intermediate…”

Then, with the advent of written transmission of information, one can imagine a gradually increasing dependence on this and perhaps a decline in the need for the enhanced memory techniques so necessary before:  http://www.historyofinformation.com/narrative/oral-to-written-culture.php  At the time, I suspect this phase would have been fraught with objections from those traditionalists concerned about the atrophication of memory itself. Change is worrisome; it can have unintended consequences…

Well, the Phoenix has once again been aroused: http://www.bbc.com/news/education-34454264  It seems that since most of us carry instantly –and ubiquitously- available information around with us in the form of smart phones or tablets, there is little need to memorize phone numbers or even addresses. And even less incentive, since we might remember them incorrectly. Egad!

I’ve noticed the transition over the years in my practice. At first, the patients would come in with lists –questions written on usually irretrievable little pieces of paper stuffed into their purses. Of course if they couldn’t find the lists, some of them then made desultory attempts to remember what they had written, but often to no avail. I became quite skilled at offering clues as to what they might want to ask, but alas, that too atrophied as time and computing advanced. It’s a two-way street, I guess. Use it or lose it.

But my younger patients (of course) appear to have taken it to extremes –or at least, so it seems to me… Judin was the most recent example, I think. She was a twenty-something woman of Persian extraction and she had come to me because of abnormal pap smears. Otherwise healthy, she sat proud and unmoving like a marble goddess in the chair opposite my desk. Her eyes tiptoed to my face and sat there like curious birds. She was dressed casually in a pale blue sweat shirt and white jeans, and as she moved her head from time to time, her earrings tinkled like little bells hiding inside her long, dark gleaming hair. Her phone lay dormant on her lab, but I could see her right hand clutching it like another equally precious jewel.

I commented on how beautiful and unusual I found her name and she smiled serenely, tossing her hair nonchalantly back and over her shoulders. “It’s the name of a village in Iran where my cousin was from. She came to live with my parents but died before I was born.”

“A village near Tehran?” I have to admit I was approaching the limits of my knowledge about Iran –my knowledge of its geography, at any rate.

She shook her head and the tinkling started again. “No, it’s in a very dry and poor region of the Sistan and Baluchistan province in the south east corner of my country -by the Gulf of Oman and the Arabian Sea,” she added helpfully, but she could read the confusion on my face. “Tehran is quite far north near the Caspian Sea.” She stopped for a moment to smile. “Judin is in the middle of nowhere.” Her eyes twinkled this time instead of her earrings. “Honestly!”

Judin –the woman- was obviously well versed in geography and family history, and I would have loved to pursue it further, but I realized, as did Robert Frost, that ‘I have miles to go before I sleep’… I had to press on with the consultation.

Some of the questions were background issues –housekeeping data that I needed to acquire to ensure I would not miss any other information that might be relevant to her abnormal pap smears. “When did your last period start?” I asked, assuming this would be a good place to start.

She smiled, and called her eyes back to roost while she lifted her phone from her lap like a religious icon. She tapped at it for a moment. “Just a minute,” she said sweetly enough. “Gotta find the app…” I could see her scrolling through the screen, her face intense, her body rigid. “Oh, here it is,” she said and glanced at me. “What was the question?”

“When did it start?” I prompted, fascinated by the effort she was making in her search.

I lost her eyes for a moment as they disappeared behind her lashes and then her lashes behind her hair as it fell forward when she lowered her head. “Well…” I could tell she was into it now: her voice seemed strained and I could see she was really concentrating. “…I’m having it now, and they only last 3 or 4 days since I started on the birth control pill…” Suddenly her face surfaced before she could restart a smile. “I don’t actually know… I guess I forgot to enter it.” She blushed and her smile disappeared. “Sorry,” she said, and looked at her phone again. “I’m going to say ‘yesterday’…” She thought about it for a moment. “No, it must have been the day before, or I probably would have remembered it.” She assumed the goddess pose again. “Yes,” she said, but more firmly now –more assertively. “Yes, it was two days ago!” She looked at me with an almost smug expression on her face that seemed to say “Isn’t technology wonderful?”

I nodded and entered the date in my computer –my substitute for her smart phone, I suppose. “And were your periods regular when you were not on the pill?” She looked at me strangely. “You know, once a month…?” I added.

She hoisted the phone once more and scrolled through it looking for the app again. It seemed to be taking a long time, so I pretended to bang my mouse against my coffee cup accidentally. “Yes,” she said hesitantly and without looking up. “But, you know I wish all months had the same number of days. Eyeballing the calendar to see if it’s the same would be so much easier.” She glanced at me, and then submerged her face in the phone again. “It’s easier to count the days I bleed than the ones I don’t.” Another glance to see if I was following her. “Fewer squares to count,” she added to make sure I understood.

“Maybe you should suggest that to the app-people,” I said, wondering if I’d used the correct word.

“You mean the IT people? The software engineers?” She smiled at me like a mother might to correct her young child. “What a great idea!” she said, when the idea struck home.

But I’d been skipping about in taking her history, and I thought I’d make sure I’d obtained the entire historical data before moving on to more pertinent issues. The age of menarche -or first period- can sometimes be helpful gynaecological information. “Do you remember how old you were when you first began to menstruate?” I could see a puzzled expression taking control of her face. I thought maybe English might be her second language and ‘menstruate’ might not be a word she would hear around the house. “When did you start your periods?”

The puzzled look disappeared, and a different one –an almost irritable one- replaced it. “Two days ago…” She cocked her head as if I hadn’t heard her the first time. But she was willing to forgive it, I could tell.

“No…” I paused for a moment, in order to figure out how to phrase it more clearly for her. “I mean you probably started to have your periods when you were quite young… Do you remember what grade you were in, or where you were living when you had that very first one?”

She nodded her head and stared at something on the wall behind me as if she was thinking about it. “I was young alright, but…”

I waited, for a moment or two and was just about to tell her to forget about it so we could move on when she suddenly fixed me with another puzzled stare. I could feel the weight of her eyes sitting on my glasses like two passenger pigeons that had already delivered their message.

“I can’t answer that question, doctor,” she said and sat back in her chair. My eyebrows must have moved because I could see her sigh in disbelief at my ignorance. “I didn’t have a phone then…” she said and shrugged. It was so obvious!